A lone housefly myopically crawls

up pale-peeling kitchen walls, entropy
in quotidian microcosms that

screams of a stiletto- hardness
tattooed in both prismic eyes. It

belays the soundful softness
of rounded thighs and arms

of the woman at the table,
the smoke of her solitary

cigarette winding like
lust toward the fluorescence

overhead. There is sex
in this as in everything.

Even death. An unwinding
of flesh into the universe

that birthed it, entropy
again. Or perhaps simply

childhood timelines
tangled with tangential

tomorrows and the
exorcism-autopsy

of memory, a stillframe
of this solitary instant, yellow

and blue, aborted phosphorescent
remembering.